You Got Your Memories
by AFishNamedSushi
Summary: Sometimes your mind flashes back to the time before the world went to hell. Memories of before tie into the here and now in more ways than you'd think. Series of one-shots from different character POV's. Rated M for violence, language, smut. *Ch. 5 - Carol*
1. Gestures

**Disclaimer: I own nothing remotely resembling The Walking Dead. If I did, I wouldn't be writing fanfiction. **

**The idea for this story is to be a series of one-shots, drabbles, etc from different characters POV's (both alive and dead). This is my first Walking Dead story and I appreciate all feedback!**

* * *

_'Well do they know what it's like to have a graveyard as a friend? '_

_Cause that's where they are boy, all of them. _

_Don't seem likely I'll get friends like that again'_

_- Talking Old Soldiers, Elton John_

xxxxx

RICK

xxxxx

It was in a bar like this one where he first met her.

xxxxx

_She's wearing red. Bright red. The contrast of it to her pale skin and dark hair makes her seem like some phantasm. Tall, slender, majestic, and completely at ease sitting and laughing with her friends at a small round table in the corner._

_'Go talk to her', Shane had said, 'All ya gotta do is tell her you're a cop and she'll be all over you, man'_

_He can hear him and the other guys laughing at him now as he weaves through the other bar patrons. He's not sure what dementia possessed him to follow Shane's advice and approach._

_His feet feel like lead, each step forward an effort. He half wishes he was in uniform just to absorb the confidence from having an air of authority. He's grasping for it now, but he's too far out at sea to back up. She's seen him coming, peering at him over the salted rim of her margarita glass._

_He clears his throat, Shane's boisterous laughter ringing in his ears._

_"Hi" _

_He clears his throat again. _

_"I'm Rick"._

xxxxx

There's a small hitch in the steady thrum of his heartbeat, a pale echo of what once before was a magnificent mixture of trepidation and excitement. A deja vu of a distant memory, that feeling. Seems like his heart only ever beats that way anymore when running for his life. Still, he supposes it's a good sign he's feeling anything at all.

Progress.

Sunlight guides their path across the tile floors, peeking through slats in the metal shutters barring the windows. Light reflects off surfaces of muted metal, the minimal dust kicked up by their careful footsteps hangs around them like a cloud. They make their way around overturned tables and piles of accumulated debris, taking special care not to accidentally step on anything that could cause unnecessary noise.

It's just the two of them who ventured inside the rundown hovel, Daryl and he. The rest of the group are waiting outside, surrounding the cars and keeping alert. He won't allow there to be less than two capable members left behind with the group. Glenn and T-Dog can handle themselves, at least for a little while while he and Daryl collect what they came for.

He's not planning to stay long here.

The wooden bar top is covered with a thick layer of dust, matted into a greying paste after so many months. Untouched, pristine. Lifting his hand, he signals for Daryl to move to the bar's right side while he moves to the left. Daryl nods, already on the move. They advance towards the bar in unison.

Silent, steady, standard.

Flanking techniques they've practiced and perfected almost to the point of telepathy. Gun leading the way, he pauses before taking that last step around the side.

Listens for any sounds.

xxxxx

_"Rick"_

_Her voice is muffled by the pillow wrapped around his head. He almost thinks it might be part of his dream until he feels her hand on his shoulder, lightly pushing._

_"Rick, baby, I'm sorry but I gotta go get some more"._

_He understands. Eyes still closed, he rolls over and grasps her hand in his, placing a kiss to the inside of her wrist._

_"I got it"_

_He drags himself to the kitchen, opening the cabinet over the sink with one hand and smothering a yawn with the other._

_Second time this week. But cravings will pass._

xxxxx

He hears nothing.

Looking to Daryl confirms the same, and they move as one around the sides. It's empty. No walkers, no hiders. Just more piles of junk from when people must have ransacked the place when the outbreak began. Back when they thought things like money and expensive booze would mean anything.

The coast clear, he crouches down and begins looking around the shelves, moving stacks of paper around with the point of his gun. Slight movement at his back lets him know that Daryl is doing the same, crossbow shouldered now that the immediate threat of danger has passed. Dust flies in his face as he pulls things out and he can't help but feel like he's desecrating the place even though it had been so far gone before they'd even shown up.

A grunt tells him Daryl's found what they're looking for, and when he rises to his feet the familiar dark container is waiting on the counter.

Morton's Salt.

He stares at it, clenches his jaw. Reaches out to grab it, finger brushing the metal tab on the top. He lets his fingers linger for a moment, and the present is overlapped by a thin layer of past.

Memories inspired by touch.

xxxxx

_She's yelling at him. Again. He knows why she's upset._

_He's leaning against the kitchen counter, arms folded over across his chest. She's telling him how she can't take this anymore, that the not knowing where he is and if he's going to come home is something she can't live with._

_"And what about Carl? Do you think he would understand if something like that happened to you?"_

_A convenient store robbery went wrong the day before, the news running with a leading story of the off-duty cop who got caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was killed by accident, caught in the cross-fire between the robber and store clerk._

_It's not the same, and she knows it. She's just scared._

_And so he lets her yell._

_She sits at the kitchen table with her head in her hands, deep sobs wracking her thin frame. His eyes flick to the clock on the wall. He's going to be late for his shift if he doesn't leave soon._

_She stills when he reaches over her shoulder, arm passing the salt and pepper shakers with lopsided letters that Carl had made in kindergarten._

_He grabs his duty-belt and straps it around his waist. He wants to say something to comfort her, to assure her that everything will be okay. But as he holsters his revolver, he knows he can't promise that. _

_So he leaves._

xxxxx

He recoils his caress as if burned, then swiftly grabs the container and moves towards the door.

They step outside into the bright light of the Georgia sun and he sees the group right where he left them gathered around the caravan. They all look up when the door shuts, waiting for orders on what to do next.

She moves towards him slightly when he nears, hands resting around her growing belly.

The can is heavy in his hand, suddenly much heavier than the gun.

He needs to be able to use the gun, and they've already spent too much time here already.

He passes the can harshly to Daryl and doesn't look at her as he moves to the driver's side door.

"Let's go"


	2. Toys

**This one's kindof heavy on the flashbacks, but I figure Sophia would have been so terrified that she couldn't think properly. Also, writing from a child's view was a new experience for me. I don't have children and I vaguely remember being one, but from what I understand the thought process is very linear. **

**I was much more excited about this one before I started writing it. Then I got into it and freaked out. It ended up being heavier than I'm used to, but I hope it turned out ok anyway.**

**This one requires additional warnings for references to abuse and domestic violence.**

**And a huge thank you to PrintDust and SpyVsTailor for your reviews! I really appreciate the support!**

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"But, I will take you back, Kathleen

To where your heart will feel no pain

And when the fields are fresh and green

I will take you to your home, again..."

- I'll Take You Home Again Kathleen, Irish folk song

xxxxxx

SOPHIA

xxxxxx

He shoved her inside the hole and told her not to go anywhere.

It smells overwhelmingly of dirt and mud, of primal earth. It's cold and dark in here, even though she can see the sun shining on the water right in front of her. There are roots poking her in the back, scraping whatever bit of skin they can that's not covered by her clothes. She can feel the dirt flaking off as it gets in her ears, her eyes, her mouth.

Sophia clutches her doll closer to her chest, shutting her eyes against the hot stream of tears. She doesn't remember grabbing it when she ran, but it's here now. Tattered and worn, but it's the only real one she's ever had.

xxxxx

_Mom took her shopping at the big chain grocery store a few times when she was little. Sophia doesn't remember how old, but she remembers that she had to stand on her tip-toes to reach up to the top of the counter at the check-out. She would run her hands over the automatic conveyor belt and just let them slide down as far as she could without moving her feet, then do it again._

_This time it must have been around the holidays. There were oversized decorations hanging from the ceiling, sparkling tinsel twirts that swayed with the air conditioner blasts. And bright paper cutout hands, each with a different name. She tried to read them all as best she could, but some letters were still unfamiliar. She would have known her own name if she saw it though._

_The display of holiday toys was a surprise, and she couldn't control her reaction when she saw them. Breaking away from Mom's hand, Sophia ran towards them. So many different things! Animals she had seen in pictures, fluffy pillows with decorative stickers, trucks and blocks that blinked and lit up. _

_With wide eyes she looked around for Mom and found her standing right next to her. She reached out to brush a lock of Sophia's hair behind her ear, wearing a small smile on her face. It was tinged with sadness. Even at that age Sophia could sense it. _

_She didn't run to toys anymore after that._

xxxxx

She turns it over in her hands to make sure it's okay, and panics when she sees the bright bloody streak across the front of its dress.

She hurt her hands when she fell while she was running. They're red and streaked with blood, pebbles and sand still stuck in raised indentations.

xxxxx

_Sophia has her hands wrapped tight around her stomach because it hurts. She's got a stomach ache and she feels like she's gonna throw up, the bile rising up in the back of her throat until she swallows it down. Tears prick at the corners of her eyes and she knows she can't cry. She can't cry because then it would look like something's wrong. Through a hazy film she sees Mom and the policeman sitting on the couch right across from her. Mom's got her arms wrapped around her stomach too because it hurts, but it's for a different reason._

_The policeman shines a light in Mom's eyes, first one then the other, and the light creates a stark contrast between her pale skin and the dried blood around her mouth. She looks like she's wearing clown makeup, or the pretty red lipstick Sophia had found hidden in the back of the toilet. She was confused at first when she found it - Daddy said that women shouldn't wear makeup because it means you're being prideful - and Mom didn't wear any makeup since she could remember. But she was drawn to it, the compact little black cylinder in her palm. So bright and daring, like holding a neon light in her hands. She's seen Miss Sarah and the other teachers wear lipstick like that, like gigantic versions of the Barbies she loves to play with when the other girls bring them to school._

_"I told you, I was in a car accident. It wasn't reported." Mom is saying._

_Sophia wipes her mouth off with the back of her hand and looks to make sure it's all gone now._

_The policeman sitting with Mom closes his notebook and gets up off the couch. He's tall and his uniform is dark and Sophia thinks he looks like a giant. He's talking to Mom and she's nodding her head, holding her hand out to take a card when he gives it to her. Sophia looks away when he looks at her, shrinking herself back behind the doorway until the shadows swallow her. She looks down at the bare brown tiles until she sees them obscured by a pair of large shiny black boots._

_He crouches down in front of her, eyes at her level, but she won't look at him._

_"Sophia?"_

_She focuses on his badge._

_"Sophia? My name is Officer Williams."_

_So bright and shiny._

_"Don't talk to her!" Mom is upset, moving to get off the couch much faster than is comfortable._

_Miss Sarah says that if you ever need help you can go to a policeman or a fireman. Anyone with a badge._

_Bright and shiny and big_.

xxxxx

Rick wasn't wearing his badge.

He left her here and told her to wait for him to come back but he wasn't wearing his badge. He's supposed to be a policeman but he took it off.

She can feel her heart beating too fast, and it's getting harder to suck in breath between cries.

She clutches the raggedy doll tighter in her hands. Her ears are primed for any sound of him coming back but she can't hear anything over her heartbeat.

It's been too long and he won't come back. He got lost or bitten.

She doesn't think she had run too far. She could make it back.

Slowly she climbs from the dirty hole, feet sinking into the muddy banks of the riverbed. Unsticking herself, Sophia looks around at the endless circle of forest surrounding her.

She thinks that tree looks familiar. She's pretty sure she ran from that direction.


	3. Dancing

**We're gonna have some fun with this one.**

**I wanted to do something less dramatic after the last two chapters. It's a bit shorter than the other ones so far, but I'm hoping it's the epitome of "short and sweet".**

**This is more new territory for me, and you all get to be my guinea pigs! **

**I'm not going to tell you who Lori's currently with and who she's remembering. Let your imagination fill in the blanks :)**

**Warnings for not-overly-graphic-but-still-sexual content. It's M for a reason, ya'll.**

**Thank you to NL March and SpyVsTailor for your reviews! Hope you continue to enjoy the story!**

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_'Cried when she should and she laughed when she could_

_Well closer to God is the one who's in love_

_And I walk away cause I can_

_Too many options may kill a man'_

_- The Professor & La Fille Danse, Damien Rice_

xxxxxx

LORI

xxxxxx

His lips are hot on hers, suffocating with their intensity but so perfect nonetheless.

She's been waiting for this for such a long time, and she knows that part of her haste comes from that waiting. The anticipation. Even though it wasn't a conscious one, wasn't a painful longing, it still reeks of desperation and undeniable need when it hits her full on.

The emotions take voice and she moans deep in her throat, a heavy sound, welling up to the point where she finds that she really can't breathe. Her heart has swollen into her brain, cohesive thought abandoned for the sake of searching, scrambling for purchase.

Adrift at sea.

She brings her hands to the sides of his face, holding him tighter, caressing his cheeks and feeling the scratchy texture of stubble against the pads of her fingers.

xxxxxx

_She finds herself strangely happy that he hasn't had the opportunity to shave for a few days. It makes him look older, more rugged. He was always so clean shaven. So meticulous in maintaining the clean appearance to accompany the uniform._

_She hadn't been expecting it when he had moved in close behind her, wrapping confident arms around her waist and nuzzling his chin into that sensitive juncture between her neck and shoulder. What startled her at first quickly blossomed into a spreading warmth, the heat of arousal spreading through her like fire._

_Her eyes drift shut, swept up in the rush of liquid warmth that makes her muscles slack and feel like jelly. She forgets what her hands were doing, and they hang in front of her like leaden weight._

xxxxxx

She's squeezing his face harder than she intends, but he doesn't seem to notice. Or care. Or both.

The noise she makes finally reaches her ears and its enough to make her break the kiss and come up for desperately needed air. She takes in a big gulping breath, relieved, and opens her eyes to see his open too.

Close and intense.

She fills her lungs again, taking in the musty scent of metallic earth, evidence of the hard day's work and stress of leadership. He wears confrontation like a second skin, conflict and diplomacy warring inside him so intensely she imagines she can see it in his eyes all the time. Imagines that it has its own taste, its own tangible flavor that permeates with his beating heart.

He smoothes his hands down her shoulders, her back, up and down in a soothing caress that's both persistent yet chaste. She reciprocates the motion, moving her hands down to his shoulders, gripping tightly at the bunched fabric of his shirt. Her impatience is more at odds with his attempt to slow things down, and they've hit a wall.

The moment pauses while the stare stretches between them.

She feels her mouth forming into a smile of its own volition and her heart flips a little when she sees him do the same. Sounds of the surrounding night make their way through the fog, crickets and frogs whose songs meld into the ring of distant words.

The reality of the situation hits them both, little bursts of soft laughter escaping in exhaled sighs.

xxxxxx

_She's breathing harder now, worked up to the point of snapping. Pulled as taught as a wire, he would only need to apply the smallest bit of delicious tension and she would break. He knows this as well as she does. And though it's not their first time, it's the first chance they've had together in a long while._

_The first time they haven't been fighting or disciplining._

_The first time that she's not having to worry about things like work and school and Stuff. Things are finally falling into place and she can say that she is reasonably..._

_Happy._

xxxxxx

The smile they share quickly turns into another kiss, harsh and heavy and filled with all the things that they can't say out loud. Things better left for the light of day, for when they don't have the risk of being overheard. Problems and responsibilities better left forgotten under the surge of endorphins and mind-numbing passion.

She's not sure how, but they maneuver themselves downward and she revels in letting herself be swept away in the tide.


	4. Appearances

**Thank you for the views and reviews! I especially want to thank SpyVsTailor for plugging this story in her amazingly-awesome Graveyard Dirt & Salt. Go read it if you haven't already.**

**I was going to wait before doing something from a villain's POV, but let's be honest - everyone is a villain in TWD. And I have a penchant for villains (they have the best songs in Disney movies after all). **

**Hope you enjoy the update!**

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_"Suddenly, uncontrolled, something is taking hold._

_Suddenly, agony, filling me, killing me._

_Suddenly, out of breath,_

_What is this, is this death?"_

_- First Transformation, Jekyll & Hyde The Musical_

xxxxx  
THE GOVERNOR  
xxxxx

He can still feel his eye blinking.

The physical sensation of opening and closing, the soft brush of eyelashes on the upper crest of his cheek. Such delicate softness, completely at odds with the roughened hide of weathered skin. A gentle caress, soothing in its innocence. Comforting in its autonomy, the utter lack of effort.

But now it's gone.

And what before was completely free now becomes a trial. A fight against muscle-memory, against what every fiber of his being wants to do yet can't. Worse than any pain because there's nothing there. It's simply gone.

Simply empty.

xxxxx

_He crosses the threshold of the apartment, grocery bag in one hand and car keys in the other. He's tired, having put in hours 40 through 52 in a cramped cubicle with bad lighting, surrounded by piles of spreadsheets. Accounts and figures. Succinct and organized representations of the wealth of others._

_He's ready for the weekend. Ready to take a load off, to kick his feet up and watch the television. Do something completely pedestrian like watch football and drink a beer._

_There's always too much to do._

_Entering the kitchen he stops short of placing the grocery bag on the counter, he takes in the collective piles of strewn mail and take-out menus with distaste. He knows he's told her a thousand times that they have a drawer for menus._

_He places the bag down and begins to move the papers to their respective areas when his gaze catches on the bright cover of a home and garden magazine. A new subscription she must have ordered, with the cover featured designer home. Typical in appearance, off-white picket fences and cartoon-green oak trees. Sprawling lawns and plastic patio furniture._

_Textbook representations of happiness and comfort._

_Of success._

xxxxx

The gauze stretches and expands, white spongey pores absorbing the gritty tan of his pallor. He pulls the roll taut with one hand, the other securing the edge of the medical tape to the square pad resting on the open wound.

The gaping hole.

The intensity is building, pressing in from all sides. He's pulling too tight, constricting too many blood vessels with the combination of Georgia heat and rising internal temperature. His skin reddens and darkens as the blood pools beneath the surface, suffocating his ears until all he can hear is the steady thrum of his heartbeat.

Calm, even beats.

Steady and controlled.

xxxxx

_He made sure not to let her see his worry, the desperation that was slowly building between them as they sat at the dinner table, absentmindedly poking at bits of food that neither of them felt like eating._

_She only asked once why he wanted this big production. Didn't think it was necessary to indulge in such elaboration, especially when they could neither afford nor justify it._

_But he was firm. Family dinner was a must, and even though he could sense her unease, he sought comfort in the appearance of solidarity, of normalcy._

_Of perfection._

xxxxx

He knows his eye isn't there anymore. Can see it plain as day in the half-cast candlelight and bounding shadows of blowing curtains in his apartment window.

His reflection in the mirror swirls with the wind, carried away by another sip of drink and rising fever. He'll surrender to the tide eventually, seek solace in delicious delirium.

But right now his temperature is rising. Fever bordering on panic, kept in check by surging anger. Of hate and encroaching madness.

It swims in his blood now, rising in this throat like so much bile. Heating his skin with the slow boil of a furnace, electric sparks prickling just under the surface. A fuse ready to blow at the slightest push.

But he takes a deep breath, and his reflection in the mirror looks calm. Looks like a man who is still in charge, who still has the confidence of an inside track.

Who knows what to do next.

Appearances are what's important.


	5. Burden

**Cuz I feels like some Caryl dammit. **

**I've been putting off writing from Carol's POV (she was on my list of holding-off-until-I-get-better-at-writing characters) but the mid-season premiere gave me the idea and it wouldn't let me go. **

**I hope I do her justice :)**

**Warnings for allusions to abuse.**

**Thanks to SpyVsTailor and NL March for the reviews! You guys make my day!**

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_"Every time we say goodbye, I die a little  
Every time we say goodbye, I wonder why a little  
Why the gods above me, who must be in the know  
think so little of me that they allow you go"_

_- Ev'ry Time We Say Goodbye, Julie London_

xxxxx  
CAROL  
xxxxx

She told Beth that it didn't matter.

And it didn't really, in the grand scheme of things.

She knows that it sounds snippy, like she's being flippant and brushing it off. If she were anyone else and saw herself acting the way she was she'd react exactly as Beth had done. As Rick and Carl and Axel and Hershel. With sorrowful eyes and soft touches meant to comfort, gentle placations and recitations of words that meant nothing. Affirmations that they were upset on her behalf.

As if somehow she had been slighted more than they had.

She's been here before, at the precipice. The point where jumping off and crawling back are both the right and wrong choice, the scariest and the safest. It seemed easier the first time, with Ed. Even with Sophia it was better. She wasn't as immersed, not as involved as she is now. Back then she couldn't see the switches as they went off in their heads, couldn't feel their pain as acutely as her own. Didn't find herself wishing she could comfort them, draw their hurt into herself so they wouldn't have to feel it anymore.

This is the first time she can feel the loss for all of them, the complete absence Daryl left. It's apparent whenever they look at her, with every touch or hug or exhaled sigh and rueful shake of a head. The unabashed acknowledgement of the loss of something she hadn't even realized everyone knew was that valuable to her.

Not when knowing her pain causes them so much.

It was better when they all thought she was crazy. When they didn't care as much. When she wasn't as valuable, as capable, as necessary for their survival.

It's been a long time since she wished she was invisible.

xxxxx

_The first time she cut her own hair she messed it up big time._

_Part of it was because she didn't have the necessary equipment, opting to use a pair of old sewing scissors instead of proper hair-cutting shears. They were rusty and dull, and her hair was lacking the vibrant smoothness it once possessed, causing her to pull and work to make the separations permanent. Her hands were shaking, trembling with vibrations from her shoulders to her fingers, causing the blades to slip and slide in her grip._

_The tremors were treacherous, an overwhelming combination of everything at once - anger, nervousness, sadness. But she made it work, gripping each section tightly and working through the awkward pain in her arms from the angle she held her head. It was going to be worth it, in more ways than one._

_She watched the strands as they fell, watched their color swirl with the cloying plaster white of the bathroom sink. It seemed like there should be more there, a heavier pile to reflect the loss. But it was done, and as she ran her hand through the short stubble, felt the bruised bumps and raises now freshly exposed, she gripped tightly and was filled with bitter happiness that her hands couldn't find proper hold._

xxxxx

She runs hands through the growing mess of her hair, the motion sparking a ghost of panic as she realizes that she can easily grab and pull. It's a small spark, barely a whisper, and she is slightly surprised that her heart doesn't speed up at all with the memory.

She has truly moved on.

It's a revelation that both excites and saddens. One of the biggest marks from long ago has been erased, something beyond physical wounds and treatable scars.

The victory is not just her own, she knows, as she looks down from her perch to the group crowded below. Each one of them played their part in her grand transformation over the past year.

After Sophia she was broken, a festering wound that could either be treated or left to rot. Unlimited potential to thrive or be consumed. And with every delegation, every responsibility doled out to her, they showed they wanted her to succeed.

And she came to want it too.

xxxxx

_It was a simple thing, really very silly when you think about it._

_This wasn't the first time Daryl had paid her a compliment, not by a long shot. Over the months they'd practiced and worked hard to make sure all members of the group were prepared for any possibility, walker and human alike. That meant training in all manner of form._

_She was never one for bragging, but she knew she had been getting better. Except for accidentally almost shooting Rick, she had done really well. At the end of the day the prison was theirs._

_She kept close by him as usual, even as she was jogging to catch up to him and Rick as they rushed towards the rest of the group. Almost didn't notice when he hung back slightly and actually looked her in the eyes when he said it._

_"Good shooting"._

_It was different this time._

_This time she actually felt she deserved his praise._

xxxxx

She recognized now that he played the biggest part. A symbiotic soul she could latch on to, could pick at and pull apart and analyze until the conclusion she came to mirrored that of herself. She rejoiced in his victories just as she knew he rejoiced in hers.

He was proud of her, even if he didn't say it. He showed her in his own way.

But being proud of someone wasn't analogous to needing them.

He had proved time and again that he didn't need them like they needed him. Not in the literal sense of life or death. In retrospect, it's a wonder he stuck around as long as he did.

He'd accomplished his goal though, fulfilled his "code". He'd followed through on whatever promise he'd made himself to keep her alive, building her up to make sure she could survive in this world when everyone else inevitably left.

Carol hastily wipes away the hot tear leaking down her cheek, anger and frustration and shame threatening to make their way through the chink in the facade.

She could and she would move on. Would survive. Would fight another day to stay alive.

She already had.

Because of him.


End file.
